


Young At Being Old

by Violsva



Category: Alternative Girlfriend - The Barenaked Ladies
Genre: Bands, Canada, Coming Out, F/F, Genderswap, Moving Out, Ontario, Small Towns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 00:11:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3188465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/pseuds/Violsva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're in an all girl band. Your futon's second-hand. Your parents understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Young At Being Old

You play Sundays at the only bar in town. You play drums. You flourish and spin the drumsticks and no one is paying attention to you but me and you wink at me over the cymbals.

You live above your dad’s four car garage. Vinyl overflows the shelves next to the futon. The springs are loud and we knock the pillow to the floor and I bruise my left knee on your radiator while you’re licking my clit and I’ve never had a night as good as this.

Monday morning I grab my purse and call my mom from your phone and go straight to work in yesterday’s clothes.

Wednesday you come into work and grin at me and don’t say anything and don’t buy anything, either.

Friday I see you with the rest of your band across the bar and I don’t say anything. My mom next to me sighs over my haircut and asks about the boy I went on one date with in high school.

Sunday night you play drums and I pretend I like whiskey and you take me home and kiss me on your front lawn until we fall there together and we’re both spinning and I fall asleep on your chest and when the sun wakes me up I disappear without saying anything.

Your parents don’t say anything to me, or to my mom.

Neither of us could afford university. I’ve never been out of the province. I’ve never even been to North Bay.

“You’re so good,” I say, and you call Tiffany and Martina over, “She says we’re good,” and they laugh and buy me drinks and you count off the start of the next set.

You play at the bar Sundays and sometimes you come into my work at closing time and sometimes we run into each other because this town is so small, and we always go to yours. Your walls are covered with posters and you have a dozen pamphlets from different charities and the only furniture is the futon and the coffee table and we sit on the floor and eat awful pizza from Antonio’s.

I start to research cities. I start to research moving van rentals. I start to think about new jobs and wonder about gigs and rent prices and I’ve never been above the third storey of a building in my life.

You bring me a letter from an agent and smile.

I tell my mom. I wait until the day before. Everything is already packed.

She calls your parents and stays on the phone with them for an hour and says nothing to me afterwards.

Your parents hug you when I pull up in front of the garage. You dad hugs me. You don’t have any more stuff than me, but the drums take up most of the leftover space in the van. Your mom gives us a microwave.

I hold the passenger door open for you, and your parents smile, and I start driving.


End file.
